


The First Time Patrick

by twentyseventats



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst and Humor, Enemies to Lovers, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Homophobia, M/M, Moira is a Protestant pastor, Religion, but the Rose family's Jewish heritage is important too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:28:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28861818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twentyseventats/pseuds/twentyseventats
Summary: David is a pastor's kid with a thirst for all things worldly. Patrick is a saint (until he ain't).There are a lot of first times.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 9
Kudos: 35





	1. Prologue "Whoomp! There It Is"

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for giving this wildly different universe a look-see! To clarify, Patrick and David are college-aged in this fic. There is some heavy religious content with corresponding homophobia, but everyone comes through it okay. Happy endings all around! Please message me at twentyseventats on Tumblr with questions or concerns.
> 
>   
> Best wishes,  
> Warmest regards,  
>  _Sarah_

**April 1999**

The first time Patrick Brewer meets his in-laws, he gets accused of being the devil. Like actual Satan with a capital S, and considering the years of goody-two-shoes-ness he has under his belt (tan leather, hand-tooled with his initials at Lutheran summer camp), it’s quite a shock for Patrick.

He aspires to be on good terms with David’s parents, so Patrick sits with excellent posture on one of the Roses’ high-end living room sofas and takes the abuse. Tolerating it is easier with David both figuratively and literally by his side.

“You,” David’s mother, the inimitable Pastor Moira Rose, says. While the threatening finger she’s pointing at Patrick is shaky, her voice is like steel. “You are a profoundly evil creature from the deepest pits of Hell, who has stolen away that which we Roses hold most dear. You have obliterated our good name and made null the godly example we strive to set for this woefully corrupt world!”

The bespectacled, besuited man beside her clears his throat and tries to intervene. “Now, Mrs. Rose. Don’t be melodramatic. David and his, ehm, friend Patrick are our guests for the weekend.”

Moira affects an artificially calmer voice. “Oh, I see, Mr. Rose. Friendly little Patrick here has absolutely no designs on our David’s innocence.” Her peaceful visage soon morphs back into righteous fury. “Then whyever were we notified that the Bible college is expelling the boys because of their alleged homosexual relationship?”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Patrick is intrigued by how Pastor Rose enunciates each syllable of her words. HO-mo-SEX-u-al, for instance, with particular emphasis on _ho_ and _sex_. It probably makes for entertaining sermons.

“Oh, it’s very real.”

“What’s that, David?” Mr. Rose asks.

A tight squeeze of Patrick’s hand, where it’s tucked between his hip and David’s, belies the very casual tone David takes with his parents.

“Our 'alleged' relationship. In fact, it is real and homosexual, and I just thought we should clear that up before making any more rash, hurtful statements.”

David’s sister, Alexis, looks up from where she’s been admiring her French tips. She seems surprised at her brother’s short speech, maybe even impressed.

Patrick is impressed, too. Pastor Moira? Less so.

“Do you understand now, Mr. Rose, why histrionics are entirely appropriate? How can I conceivably be anything less than dramatic when this wily interloper has tempted our only male offspring into iniquity of the most deadly nature?”

Alexis is back to studying her manicure. “But gay sex doesn’t kill people? I mean, now that they have medication for HIV. And condoms are free in lots of places,” she says helpfully. “The community center hands them out.”

“Alexis, bite your tongue!” Mrs. Rose shrieks. “We don’t use words like that in this house, young lady.”

In a minor act of defiance, Alexis shrugs. Patrick, meanwhile, is left wondering which of her words was the rule breaker. Candidates include ‘sex,’ ‘gay,’ ‘HIV,’ ‘condoms,’ and even ‘medication,’ as David told him that his mother preaches against doctors. Prayer, the godly woman insists, is the most effective treatment for whatever ails you.

True to form, she suggests (commands) that the small group in the formal living room pray together now. Patrick bows his head out of habit.

“Dearest, most holy Father in Heaven, we come before You today in fear and trembling. We beg You to give us wise minds as we seek to discern Your will for this lost lamb, David. Grant us the fortitude to do what we must so that he may be rescued from the clutches of Satan before the darkening stain on David’s soul is too deep for even Your precious blood to cleanse.”

“Excuse me, _Pastor Mom_.” David’s tone is sarcastic but brooks no argument. “First of all, I’m not some cardigan that needs laundering, okay? And Patrick, though he can be devilish in bed, is NOT evil. Furthermore, I quite enjoy being in his clutches!” David weaves his fingers with Patrick’s and raises their clasped hands demonstratively, a simple golden wedding band glinting in the lamplight. And there it is: their darkest secret, revealed.

Patrick winces, waiting for the fallout.

Alexis’s face takes on an almost gleeful expression of horror.

Mr. Rose’s substantial eyebrows rise heavenward.

Pastor Moira faints with a theatrical kind of grace, landing splayed across her dismayed husband’s lap. He shifts, however, and she rolls off and hits the floor, her tumble cushioned by a plush, geometric rug in silver and gold.

David snorts.

\----

The first time Patrick sees David’s childhood bedroom, he doesn’t see much. Patrick follows him into the room and pivots briefly to shut the door behind them. By the time he turns around, David is prowling towards him with a sexy shimmy of his shoulders.

“Hi, handsome,” David says, advancing until he traps Patrick against the closed door. David tries to suppress a manic grin; he mostly succeeds, but the smile is evident in his eyes, too. And that’s a massive relief because Patrick has been worried that the dressing down they just got from David’s parents would trigger a long period of moping. (David mopes about things like getting a hangnail or the tiniest snag in the fabric of his least favorite sweater. This situation could have been a bona fide disaster.)

“Hello, David.”

David cocks his head. “Um, I called you handsome, but then you skipped over the part where you give me a compliment in return, so....”

“Sorry, David.”

“Still waiting,” David singsongs. During the ensuing silence, he starts to pout. “Wow. You’re very frigid today.”

It’s challenging to keep a straight face, and Patrick manages, but only just. “Well, I was going to compliment you on your admirable patience. Sorry to say, but you just blew it.”

David’s mouth goes slightly agape.

“Don’t worry about it, though. I’m sure I’ll think of something eventually.”

Since David hasn’t closed his mouth yet, Patrick decides to hook a finger inside it and draw his head nearer so he can join their lips together in a slow, sweet kiss. He likes teasing David, but he enjoys making up for it even more.

It’s all well and good until David puts his arms around Patrick's waist and grabs his ass with clear intent, grinding up against him until it’s moderately painful. When their embrace goes from comforting to consuming, it’s time to slow things down. Patrick tries to deflect his husband’s more passionate kisses. He turns his head, so David’s lips miss their target, making contact instead with Patrick’s cheek, before skating down his jawline and still lower, setting up camp on the warm column of his neck. In no time, Patrick feels the sting of a fresh bruise forming where David is expertly creating a hickey.

And won’t _that_ bring much joy to Pastor Rose when she inevitably sees it?

“Stop it,” Patrick hisses, trying to stay quiet. The elder Roses are in the pastor's study, directly across from David’s room. Patrick can hear Moira and John’s voices, muffled but audible, as they have a serious discussion (about their demonic new son-in-law, probably). The last thing he wants is to give them more fodder.

“Your parents are going to hear us, and they hate me as it is.”

“No, they don’t,” David murmurs against Patrick’s skin, mid-nibble.

“Yes, they do.”

David huffs a frustrated sigh. “Okay, you’re right. They do.” He cups Patrick’s face in one hand, tipping it back so he can press a firm kiss to his lips. With a worryingly loud smacking sound, they part again. “But trust me when I say that their hatred is already at the high tide mark. There’s basically nothing you can do to make it worse at this point.”

“Gee, David. Your words are a balm to my troubled soul, a salve for my guilty conscience.”

“Oh, my god! Will you please shut up, so I can ravish you?”

“The need for shutting up is what I’ve been trying to get across to you this whole time.” Footsteps coming down the hall on the other side of the door prove his point. “We can’t just stand here and talk about ravishing each other. Your voice really carries, David.”

Putting a sliver of space between them, David removes his hands from Patrick’s body while Patrick listens for retreating footsteps. He doesn’t hear them; hopefully, the coast is clear.

“M’kay. Well, if you’re so worried about my volume, I’ll find something else to do with my mouth.” Before the meaning of his words even registers, David starts working on the button of Patrick’s Levis. The sound of his zipper opening seems louder than it ever has before.

There may or may not be a small gasp in the hallway. Panicked, Patrick pleads with his husband.

“Please, David. We shouldn’t be doing this here,” he whispers. Then, even more quietly, “I think someone is right outside the room.” With a whoosh, Patrick’s pants and boxers are tugged down to his ankles. David is way too good at getting him naked in a hurry.

“If it’s such a problem,” David snarks, “shut me up with your delectable dick.”

Now there _is_ a noise in the hallway, something along the lines of aborted retching.

“Ew, David!” Alexis yells, and Patrick can hear her stomp away.

He’s gone soft at the interruption, but David fixes that in record time and proceeds to give him the blowjob of his life. To his chagrin, Patrick is the one who gets too loud.

But he does so in David’s bed, on the opposite side of the room, with a helpful pillow absorbing all incriminating noises.

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ooh, that's it, come on, come on_   
>  _Whoomp, there it is! I'm done_
> 
> **Whoomp! (There It Is) by Tag Team, 1993**


	2. "Somewhere in the Vicinity of the Heart"

**January 1998**

The first time Patrick knows for sure what he’s going to do with his life is on a random Sunday, early in the year that he’s slated to graduate from high school. 

Well, that’s not strictly accurate.

The _first_ first time Patrick knows for sure what he’s going to do with his life is at age 14. One morning, following a vivid dream, he finds himself on his back in bed, constricted by sweaty sheets and willing his heart to beat at a more normal pace. It’s hard to know what set it to racing in the first place, considering the benign content of his dream. There were buff, white men in khaki shorts, outdoor survival gear, and cross pendants on leather necklaces; primitive straw dwellings full of spindly children; and lots of naked, low-hanging, dark brown breasts. As he awakens further, he recognizes the dream as a vision of a missionary camp in Africa.

(He’s relatively sure it wasn’t the culturally appropriate nudity that got him going, but puberty is a confusing time. It wasn’t the male missionaries’ bulging muscles because that is simply not an option for someone with his strict set of ideals.)

At any rate, Patrick believes the Lord sent him the dream for a reason. For _the_ reason: God is calling him to a life of service in the mission field, spreading the Good News. Jesus won’t return until everyone on Earth has heard of Him and had the chance to repent, and, as any Protestant with a single fiber of common sense knows, the Second Coming of Christ is basically the point of human existence, the climax of the movie that is life.

So Patrick spends the next three years excited, as well as fearful, about his destiny. Not to mention the prospect of permanent sunburn once the safari sun meets his pasty skin.

\----

But back to the _second_ first time that Patrick receives the Call:

He’s at church, shoehorned into a wooden pew between his mother and his best friend, Stevie. During the announcements before the service, Patrick’s mind is busy, as usual. It takes little effort to catalog information about his surroundings and sort it into imaginary lists and tables. At the moment, he’s distractedly noting the differences in the women on either side of him. 

To the right is Marcy Brewer, Patrick’s mom. It’s a given that she’s impeccably turned out in a floral jumper and sweater with a modest neckline. Her tasteful jewelry and flawless makeup are complemented by a sleek, shoulder-length bob and her usual perfume: Woman by Ralph Lauren. 

The only reason Patrick knows the name of it is because his dad gives her a bottle every year on Valentine’s Day, her birthday, _and_ Christmas. 

Stevie, on the other hand, smells like deodorant—something sporty and generic. She’s wearing a pair of light-wash overalls and one of her many, many flannel shirts. Her single concession to the Sunday dress code is pulling her hair back in a tidy ponytail. Patrick toes the line and always has, but he admires the way Stevie bends the rules.

“Please, stand,” Pastor Brent says, opening the service with the invocation. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

Patrick crosses himself and bows his head. Stevie does it too, deeply spiritual, even if she sometimes pretends otherwise. Confession and Absolution begin the liturgy, which Pastor Brent leads. 

“If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us.”

Repeating the words he has said every Sunday of his life since he learned enough to read along, Patrick says:

“Most merciful God, we confess that we are by nature sinful and unclean. We have sinned against You in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done and by what we have left undone….”

There is more, but it’s the first part that gets Patrick’s head in the game. Whatever random thing he was just thinking about, whatever happened this past week at school, whether or not his favorite NFL teams will win later in the day, all of it goes *poof* when this familiar guilt hits him in the chest, a sacred shock to the heart.

It may sound contradictory, but the rock-solid knowledge that he is a sinner ‘by nature’ is a tremendous comfort. All he did wrong—at first, anyway—was get born, and that’s hardly his fault. But the blame doesn’t belong to Patrick’s parents, either; humans enter the world naturally flawed and eternally doomed, only because Eve ate that apple in the Garden. Because she gave it to Adam, and he ate it, too. The world’s first set of parents screwed it up for their kids and every generation that came after.

From that point in the recitation on, though, it’s personal. Patrick can’t deny that he has a laundry list of offenses Scotch-taped to his soul, which is why it’s so great to hear week in and week out that he’s off the hook.

“Almighty God in His mercy has given His Son to die for you,” Pastor Brent reassures the congregation. “As a called and ordained servant of Christ, and by His authority, I, therefore, forgive you all your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

Everyone says, “Amen,” in unison and sits down, shifting around futilely trying to get comfy in the hard pews again.

In the right mindset now, Patrick pays attention to the service—mostly. Until Stevie swipes his sermon notes to draw a grid for the dot game and forces him to play a couple of rounds. He’s still mourning his pathetic losing streak, so he doesn’t hear the pastor introduce a guest speaker. He notices now because Stevie stops scribbling insults on the paper and freezes, gaze fixed straight ahead.

Behind the podium stands a tall guy with blond hair and freckles, and Stevie looks like she wants to eat him with a fork. It’s understandable. He has a plain face, not unlike Patrick’s own, but the man’s other assets make up for it. Gym-earned, no doubt.

“Breathe, Stevie,” he says in a whisper.

“Talk to the hand, creep,” Stevie shoots back, not quietly enough, as it makes Marcy Brewer turn to see what the trouble is.

It seems like a good time to make a sacrifice in the name of peace, so Patrick reaches into the pocket of his chinos, coming up with a full pack of orange Tic Tacs, both Stevie and Patrick’s favorite flavor of the tiny mints. He presses it into her right hand as he shushes her. Stevie returns the favor by sticking out her tongue at him, but she does open the Tic Tacs and give Patrick a few before slumping in the pew, more relaxed.

Warren Mobridge introduces himself as a representative from a small, private college in Minnesota. According to Warren, the Association of Liberated Lutherans Bible School, or ALLBS (pronounced Albus) for short, is the only option for Christian youth of _true_ faith who seek to ground themselves in the Word before going out into the world.

Humble and earnest, Warren and his ALLBS pitch are convincing. He describes a two-year program of Bible study, fellowship, music ministry, and intramural sports. Best of all, classes only run in the mornings, giving students a chance to work full time.

Patrick can sense his dad’s ears perking up when he hears that. Even with scholarships, Patrick’s undergrad degree at the University of Northwestern will cost an arm and a leg. Heck, they might have to sell other body parts on the black market. Unless, hmm. Working and saving while at ALLBS would ease some of the financial pressure.

While the official Patrick Brewer life plan© allows for four years of college before heading into the mission field, he’s suddenly contemplating adding two more. Could this be God’s will? Another critical step on the way to answering His call to service?

To seal the deal, Warren drops Bible verse after Bible verse in support of the college’s mission “to optimize this special time in your life for spiritual learning and growth, not just academic achievement.” Warren promises that “We will enable you to further your relationship with Jesus Christ, and train you to fulfill your God-given purpose in the Brotherhood of believers.”

The concept of Bible school as a training program for some kind of brotherhood makes it sound vaguely like the base camp for a religious militia, but that’s probably just an unfortunate choice of wording.

Suddenly, Pastor Brent summons the ushers forward with their collection baskets to take up a special offering for Warren’s college. The pianist begins playing the offertory hymn, and Warren takes a deep breath as he prepares to finish his speech. Arms outstretched in benevolence, he does just that.

“It is our prayer, as the ALLBS outreach committee, that you will daily receive God’s Word with a teachable heart. And when the Lord prods your soul with a gentle command, you may rely upon those of us at ALLBS to be ready and waiting.

“See you there,” Warren concludes with a cheeky wink, and Patrick feels the truth of it in his gut. 

Dizzy from the abrupt way his trajectory is changing, Patrick forgets to sing during the closing hymn; he also forgets to breathe.

“Hey,” he thinks he hears Stevie say, but he’s too light-headed to care. He feels it when she gives him a firm elbow to the ribs, however, and it jumpstarts his lungs and brain. This time he hears her, loud and clear. “Hey, loser. The service is over.”

“Really?”

Stevie affectionately gives him crap the whole time she pulls him out of the pew and hauls him from the sanctuary, but when they’re waiting in line to shake the pastor’s clammy hand, she gives him back the remainder of the Tic Tacs. Following Patrick’s eyes to the freckled man standing next to Pastor Brent, she tsks in sympathy.

“Pretty sure you need these more than I do,” she says and watches Patrick pop a small handful in his mouth, nervous. Unfortunately for his pride, Patrick is still sucking on them when he reaches Warren. 

He tries to introduce himself, but his name sounds like “Pahtwick'' around the mints. Warren just gives him a xeroxed application form for ALLBS and a hearty clap on the shoulder. Stevie also takes an application from the self-assured guest speaker, receiving an awkward, one-armed hug as well.

“Come with me,” Patrick says to her. The words are distinguishable, so he must have swallowed the mints all at once. Too bad he didn’t think to do that a minute earlier.

“Where are we going?”

“Just come.”

Furtively, Stevie follows him away from the fellowship hall, where the myriad smells of a potluck call to her, and into a dark hallway. Around the corner is the church office. The lights are off here, too, but Patrick doesn’t hesitate to enter. He breezes in and heads to the desk of the church secretary, pawing through her belongings. Suffused light from the curtained windows helps him see what he’s doing.

“Are you crazy?” Stevie asks. “This is wrong. What are you looking for?”

“A pen.”

“What, why?”

“I just…,” he trails off, still searching. “Aha. Got one!” Patrick clears a portion of the mess he just made on the desktop before setting down his ALLBS application and smoothing it out. “I have to do this right now, Stevie. The Lord wants me to. I don’t know how I know that, but I do.”

Ever since Warren’s presentation, Patrick has felt like he’s at the lip of a precipice. For some reason, that single, mortifying interaction with him has Patrick ready to go over the edge, to take a proverbial (literal, in some ways) leap of faith.

With all the naiveté afforded him by his conservative upbringing, he puts blue Bic pen to application paper and jumps.

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I feel somethin' hittin' me awful hard  
>  I don't know where it's callin' me  
> Well, I just know it starts  
> Somewhere in the vicinity of the heart_
> 
> **“Somewhere in the Vicinity of the Heart” by Shenandoah, 1994**


	3. "No Scrubs"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized too late that I named this chapter for a song that hadn't been released when my character quoted it. Almost, but not quite yet. Ah, well. May I claim creative license?

**February 1998**

The first time Patrick has an inkling that he might have screwed up royally is approximately thirty seconds after he tells his high school guidance counselor about the decision to postpone attending the University of Northwestern and apply to Bible school. 

The first time that inkling morphs into panic is thirty seconds after the guidance counselor gives _him_ some news regarding that decision.

\----

Later the same day, Patrick sits in the bleachers at Stevie’s basketball game, cheering her on. Or, well, cheering the team on and watching Stevie do the same from the bench. She has a quick mind and understands the game’s strategy, but she’s just a little too short (and a lot too slow) to see much time on the court. It’s not surprising, then, that she doesn’t need to shower after the game before changing clothes in the locker room, grabbing her duffle bag, and finding Patrick where he’s been waiting for her, still seated in the bleachers, just a couple of rows up from the court. Most of the crowd has dispersed, except for a few students lingering to socialize.

When Stevie unexpectedly launches herself onto Patrick’s lap, he fumbles his math textbook and the legal pad on which he was very diligently writing notes. Thus it is entirely fair and right that his friend lands on the one thing Patrick didn't drop: his pencil.

“Oh, my god, ouch!” she complains, squirming. “Is that your pencil poking my butt or—”

“Nah. I’m just happy to see you.”

Any hint of a smile drops off her face as she deadpans, “You disgust me.”

He chuckles, proud of himself for having the upper hand, for once, and helps Stevie dig around between them for the wayward writing utensil. Patrick tucks it into his backpack when they find it, eventually. The process must have looked suspicious because someone behind him says, “Get a room.” 

Stevie snaps, “Shut up, Ashley. He has a girlfriend, okay?”

“Fiancée,” Patrick quietly corrects. It still feels weird using that word in reference to Rachel, even if they’ve been dating for the last three years. He never saw himself getting engaged in high school, but he caved to her frequent, pointed hints and a looming sense of inevitability. Marriage is the logical conclusion of their courtship; might as well make Rachel happy with a ring before he leaves for college without her.

“Scratch that,” Stevie sasses the other girl, “he has a _fianc_ _é_ _e_.”

Ashley scoffs. “How come she’s never with him, and you are?” 

“Uh, I don’t know,” Stevie says in her dark, smoky voice. “Bite me.”

Stevie’s arms are casually draped around his neck, but Patrick knows, without turning to look, that she’s flipping Ashley the bird. It’s something Patrick would never do. Perversely, though, he likes that he can be vulgar vicariously through Stevie.

Once he hears Ashley clomping away, and the tension eases from Stevie’s body, he drops his face into her shoulder and sighs deeply, feeling the moisture and heat from his breath spread outwards from the place his mouth meets the fabric of her flannel shirt. He does it again, just to be weird.

“Get off me, dork,” Stevie scolds, but her voice is uncharacteristically gentle. She can tell that he’s wrestling with something, and he can tell that she can tell. She can probably tell that he can tell that she can—

“Stop it. Stop thinking in loops and tell me what the problem is, Mister P.”

“Please, don’t call me that,” he whines into her shirt.

“Okay, Pat.”

“No.” This is a sparring match they’ve had before.

“Patty?”

“Noooo. I’m not a hamburger.”

“Don’t make me go there. Don’t make me say ‘Saint Patrick.’ I know that one hits a little close to home.”

Patrick groans, tired of the nicknames, but he does pull back and look at her face. 

Concern has a way of softening Stevie’s features, he’s noticed over the years of their friendship. She’s such a tomboy; Patrick sometimes forgets she’s a girl, but when she goes the tiniest bit maternal like this, he remembers. He appreciates it, too. It’s not like his guy friends from choir or baseball are going to hold him close and comfort him in dire straits, such as these.

“A couple of Sundays ago, when we had that speaker at church…,” he starts.

“Mmm, let me see. Ah, yes—the day you recklessly decided to give U of N the shaft to abscond with that boring, albeit fricking hot, man who wants to ‘prod your soul.’”

“Gross. Warren didn’t say that. He said if the Holy Spirit prodded my soul with the conviction to apply to ALLBS, I should do it.” 

“And we know you did, like, immediately. So does that mean you got probed by a holy ghost?”

Patrick can’t stop his eyes from narrowing. He feels like he may lose it on his best friend if she doesn’t stop being difficult. “The Holy Spirit isn’t a joke.”

“God, sorry,” Stevie says, and she does look sorry. She gives him a quick hug before sliding off his lap onto the bench next to him. “Okay, well, I can’t think of what might be bumming you out unless… Oh. Did you not get accepted?”

“I got the acceptance letter yesterday.”

The so-called acceptance letter was nothing more than a token document, a keepsake, because the only criteria for admission at the Bible School ended up being a check for the first semester’s tuition and fees, which Clint Brewer was more than happy to write and send off to Minnesota. (Happy because it was half as much as he had expected to pay the U of N.)

Stevie squeals, “That’s great! Congratulations! What’s your deal, then?”

“Um.” Patrick wonders how to say it without giving in to the need to break down. “So it turns out that my scholarships at Northwestern are not going to be available if I go somewhere else first.”

“What?”

“Yeah, it’s a one-time deal for incoming freshmen. Transfer students can apply for some smaller awards, based on their grades at the school they transfer from.”

Smiling tentatively, Stevie nudges Patrick’s leg with her knee. “That’s not so bad. We know you’ll ace every class at ALLBS, and you’ll have two year’s worth of extra savings.”

It’s all Patrick can do to clear his throat instead of whimpering. “Except that ALLBS isn’t accredited.”

“So what?”

“So I can’t transfer any credits to U of N, and I can’t apply for scholarships meant for transfer students.”

“Okay, I’m confused. Technically, if you’re not earning college credit at the Bible school, wouldn’t that make you a freshman when you start at Northwestern?”

“I guess not. Mr. Elliot had a very long phone call with someone in the admissions department there, and they were pretty clear about it: no scholarships unless I go straight there or transfer from another accredited school.”

“Who’s Mr. Elliot?” Stevie asks.

“Our guidance counselor.”

“Right. I blocked him from my memory after he accused me of having no ‘viable plan for success’ in life.”

Patrick frowns, upset on his friend’s behalf. “What’s wrong with your plan?”

“Uh, maybe the fact that I don’t have one yet.” She grimaces and tugs the scrunchie out of her hair, a little too roughly.

“That would do it,” Patrick allows. “You’ll figure it out, Stevie, with or without Mr. Elliot. But anyway, I’m still going to ALLBS.” He resolutely corrects his posture, rolling his shoulders back.

“And how is that going to work? You just won’t get a degree?”

“If I can’t afford U of N after Bible school, then whatever. Spending two years studying scripture will give me a great foundation in the Word before becoming a missionary. The people that I’m going to shepherd deserve me at my best.”

“I just can’t understand how this mystical, momentary _prodding_ made you want to throw away the scholarships you worked so hard for.”

“See, that’s not it at all. You know the Lord will provide. If a bachelor's degree is in His plan for me, He’ll make sure I have the resources.”

“Of course. That makes total sense,” Stevie says. It’s always hard to tell what’s sarcasm and what isn’t with her. Before he can ask for clarification, she hits him with, “What does Rachel think? You know, the girl you’re expecting to follow you everywhere?”

Removing the baseball cap he often wears, Patrick takes a minute to rake his fingers through his hair in frustration before switching the hat around and putting it on backward.

Stevie steals it off his head only to replace it frontways.

“Don’t be a scrub, Patty. We don’t want no scrubs.”

“I give up,” Patrick says, shouldering his bag, getting to his feet, and skipping down the bleacher stairs. “Let’s go, please.”

“Alright. But you didn’t answer my question,” Stevie calls after him.

“Nope.”

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _No, I don't want no scrubs_   
>  _A scrub is a guy that can't get no love from me_
> 
> **"No Scrubs" by TLC, 1999**


	4. "Whatta Man"

**September 1998**

The first time Patrick sees the ALLBS campus, he figures his father made a wrong turn somewhere along the way. Even with a sign proudly naming this place the Association of Liberated Lutherans Bible School, est. 1966, Patrick is suspicious. It just doesn’t look very collegiate. On the other hand, the Brewers decided against a campus tour before move-in day, so it’s true Patrick didn’t know what to expect of the school itself.

It wasn’t this.

Stuffed to the gills with all of Patrick’s belongings, the Brewers’ decrepit Dodge Caravan rattles across a blacktop parking lot in desperate need of resurfacing. They pull up and stop behind a three-story brick structure with the look of a ‘60s apartment building, presumably one of the school’s two dormitories, as mentioned in the handbook Patrick received along with his acceptance letter. Not far to the south is a nearly identical building: the second dorm.

After wrestling open the vehicle’s middle door, rusty on its track, Patrick hops out to take stock of his surroundings. From this vantage point, he can see everything on the sloping plot of land. A concrete sidewalk connects the dorm buildings, and several trees dot the lawn. There is a lone bench, unshielded from the glaring, late summer sun. Patrick isn’t surprised that no one is using it. Also empty, a sand volleyball pit that looks to hold more dirt than sand, with a sagging net.

Patrick isn’t bothered by the lack of glamor, but he is concerned about the lack of buildings. Where are the lecture halls? The library? The gymnasium? Where is the cafeteria? The student center? The chapel?

Okay, he might have the answer to that last one. Set slightly downhill from the dorms is an aging church. It’s not old in a charming, historic way; no, it’s dated, and squat, and ugly, and the only thing marking it as a church is the raised roofline adorned with a metal cross. An addition branching off one side of the sanctuary appears to hold offices.

There is simply nothing else on the property, save the sign they passed at the mouth of the driveway, no other roads leading in or out.

Climbing woodenly from the minivan and stretching her muscles, Marcy looks out over the campus and says, “Well, this is nice.”

“Nice and, um, compact,” Clint adds once he’s on solid ground, too.

 _More like nonexistent_ , Patrick muses but doesn’t say.

“Yes, and just think! We won’t have to worry about you walking long distances between classes this winter, Patrick. What an unexpected blessing.”

His mother is emotional enough as it is, so Patrick decides to agree with anything she says. “That’s right, Mom. I’m really happy about that and, you know, just excited to get started moving in.” That’s as much enthusiasm as Patrick can muster, for now. He bends to grab his travel pillow and backpack from the floor of the van. When he turns around, he’s swallowed in a desperate hug from Marcy.

“I love you so much, sweet boy. I wish I could take this special part of your journey with you, but that’s not my place. Leaving you here alone will be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I’ll be watching from afar, Patrick. Praying for you and believing in you, always.”

“Love you too, Mom,” he says, “but you won’t be too far away, right? It’s only a four-hour drive, and I can probably hitch a ride home most weekends.”

“That’s what you say now,” Marcy croaks.

“Okay. Listen.” This fear of hers is one thing he can’t accept, despite his resolve to be agreeable, so Patrick grasps his mother by the shoulders, putting enough space between them that he can look directly into her watery eyes while he speaks. “I will always come back to you and Dad. That’s a promise.”

“Even after you move to another country?”

“Especially then.”

Marcy inhales sharply, holds her breath for a beat, and releases it slowly. She smiles her familiar, tranquil smile. “Thank you, Patrick. What a wonderful young man you’ve become, pure of heart and mind.”

Another car rumbles into the lot and parks alongside them. Patrick gently ushers his mom towards the grass behind the dorm building and clears his throat, trying to dislodge the fond laugh stuck there without giving away his amusement. “Well, this pure young man wants to see what his dorm room looks like and figure out how many boxes he’ll have to send back home with you.”

“I’m positive it will all fit, especially with that closet organization system we bought.” The closet organizer is one of a slew of brand new, gimmicky items from Bed Bath & Beyond that Patrick doesn’t want but which his mom insists are 100% essential for dorm life.

“What do you want me to carry in first, Patrick?” Clint asks from behind the minivan, hatch open.

Marcy answers before Patrick can get a word out. “Bring those interlocking bins, dear. He needs them for his sporting equipment.”

“Let’s just bring the box of clothes and the one with bedding,” Patrick says discreetly to his dad, rounding the back of the van.

“You got it, son.”

“Wait,” Marcy calls and walks back over. “I’ll carry the bins. They don’t weigh a thing.”

“You don’t weigh a thing, darling,” Clint teases, bestowing a kiss on his wife’s cheek. She blushes and bats him away, and the process of settling Patrick in at Bible school finally begins.

\----

The first time Patrick sets eyes on David Rose, he doesn’t know it’s David Rose. Patrick only knows that he doesn’t want to look away from the person walking in his direction on the path to the men’s dormitory, and not just because he needs to be sure they don’t collide in passing. Shifting the Uhaul box in his arms further to the other side of his body, Patrick slows and readies a polite smile for his potential fellow student. 

As the distance between them narrows, Patrick’s powers of observation kick into high gear, like he’s going to need to be able to describe every attribute of this man to a sketch artist. Like survival is at stake. Patrick can’t help it; sometimes, his analytical mind hijacks the attention he should be paying to other things.

Right off the bat, Patrick notices the guy’s magnificent pompadour hairstyle. It wouldn’t be out of place in the movie Grease, though it has a satin sheen and looks less, well, _greasy_ than what Patrick remembers of the T Bird gang’s stylings. Impressively full, black eyebrows match the man’s hair color and volume, but while his hair and eyes and olive complexion are dark, he practically glows in an all-white outfit.

Like, it’s kind of difficult to look at him straight on, what with the slanted, evening sunlight enrobing his body in a fiery beam. He’s wearing stark white jeans, pegged at the ankle, over white boots with thick soles. Through squinted eyes, Patrick reads the words printed on the man’s white, long-sleeved shirt: “WILD ALOOF REBEL.” 

_Interesting_. The phrase (and/or the broad chest beneath it) sends a quick-spreading thrill up the flesh of Patrick’s back, over his shoulders, and down his arms. Suddenly, Patrick has to concentrate on avoiding dropping the box, and it breaks him out of his trance. Albeit not in time.

Moments before they can pass each other without incident, several things go wrong. Patrick notices that a scowl mars the man’s face, and his eyes are so tumultuous they flash black. Startled, Patrick forgets his plan to step off the narrow sidewalk and surrender the right of way, freezing instead as they unexpectedly make eye contact. It’s eerie how the man doesn’t seem to see him, his fierce, momentary gaze sliding right off of Patrick and onto the sidewalk beyond. 

A distracted Patrick doesn’t see the girl walking directly behind the man until she veers out to walk next to him.

In turn, she fails to notice Patrick before barreling into him. However, instinct tells him to swivel, so she makes harmless contact with his side and not the cardboard box. Bouncing backward, her arms pinwheel until she can regain her balance. Meanwhile, Patrick is thrown off-kilter and headlong into the grass (not as soft as he would have guessed) with his cargo. 

He hasn’t even opened his eyes, following the impact, when his mother screams. “Patrick! Oh, Patrick, are you hurt?”

Marcy’s knees creak as she lowers herself to the ground next to Patrick, and the noise takes his mind off the embarrassment, just waiting for its turn to deal him damage.

“I can’t tell,” he says, but it’s a fib. Patrick could feel his shoulder joint pop out of place at the end of his inglorious fall. It’s something that occasionally happens on the ball field, so he knows how to work it back in without assistance. He’s going to lie here and wait before making the torturous adjustment, though. It’s still possible the dark-eyed devil in purloined angel garb hasn’t noticed him yet. Of course, it’s more likely that Patrick has a concussion if he’s thinking in blasphemous metaphors like that one.

As Clint comes jogging across the lawn to help, Patrick struggles to sit up and makes it with a little assistance from his mom. Then he watches his dad right the Uhaul box, gathering the contents ejected in the tumble. At least there isn’t anything fragile to worry about; it’s the last of Patrick’s stuff from home, namely his baseball glove and cleats, a basketball pump, a drawstring bag of tennis balls, and his racquet. Some stray athletic socks, too. 

Remarkably, Marcy’s prophecy came true, and everything has found a place in her son’s new room, interlocking bins included—soon to be filled with this assortment of sports gear. Although judging from what he’s observed of the campus so far, it might not get a lot of use.

Before he can psych himself out, Patrick grabs his right wrist with his left hand, tugging the arm outward and guiding the ball of his humerus bone back into its socket. The resulting pain makes his vision go fuzzy. When it clears, he spots two pairs of fashionable boots—shiny, white Doc Martens next to some high-heeled, black suede monstrosities—their occupants stationary on the sidewalk and turned in Patrick’s direction. 

So, yeah. He’s been seen.

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _He dresses like a dapper don, but even in jeans_   
>  _He's a God-sent original, the man of my dreams_   
>  _Whatta man, whatta man, whatta man_   
>  _What a mighty good man_
> 
> **“Whatta Man” by Salt-N-Pepa with En Vogue, 1993**


	5. "Smells Like Teen Spirit"

The first time Patrick hears David’s voice, it’s whiny and shrill, which is not kind to Patrick’s possibly concussed brain.

“Oh, my _God_ , can you not even walk in a straight line? You’re a disaster.”

Patrick’s head snaps up (too fast, and it hurts) to look at the man unfairly insulting him. Except the insult isn’t meant for Patrick if he’s reading the situation correctly. The swarthy angel’s indignant expression is aimed full force at the teenaged girl responsible for knocking Patrick flat, but she is quick to strike back.

“ _You’re_ a disaster, David,” she accuses.

“No, _you’re_ a disaster. You won’t even accept the negligible risk of breaking a nail to carry one of my garment bags. They have padded handles!”

The girl stomps one booted foot and growls in the pitch of an angry toddler. She’s quite beautiful for someone so childish. From his place on the ground, Patrick is about eye-level with her knees, tan and smooth, where they peek out from under a flowy skirt that ripples in what little breeze there is at the moment. Her look is bohemian, but her attitude is one-hundred percent brat. She shakes a mane of liberally highlighted brunette waves out around her shoulders, taking a few moments to readjust her face into a prim smile.

“David,” she says, voice saccharine, “FYI? I wouldn’t risk breaking a nail to save you from certain, gory death.”

“Okay, well, whatever. Nevermind.” The man Patrick now knows as David (perhaps named for the controversial Hebrew king in the Bible) tosses his head back, pinching the bridge of his regal nose like he’s too good for the entire situation. Kingly, indeed. “Hey, Alexis,” he says, in a louder voice but with a softer tone, to the girl already busy tip-tapping away down the sidewalk. “You’ve been so very helpful this afternoon, and it makes me want to give you something to express my deep appreciation for your sisterly support.”

Alexis pauses long enough to cast a skeptical glance behind her. “What is it?”

“Mmmm… There might be a couple of Gucci pieces from the Spring Campaign that I would consider parting with.” He sounds serious, but Patrick can see the mischief hidden in a dimpled, pursed-lip smile.

“I don’t believe you, but ahem. Which pieces in particular?” Now there is a hint of real excitement showing through Alexis’s facade of nonchalance. “Ooh, can I have that cute alligator clutch with the matching, detachable choker?”

“As if,” David says emphatically. “But I do have a sexy pair of nylon shorts… that you may eat, with my compliments.”

Patrick wasn’t quite ready for the punchline, and he chokes around a laugh, a bit of inhaled saliva triggering a coughing spell. Marcy is right there to deliver a few whacks on the back to help clear his lungs. “Thanks, Mom,” he wheezes, shoulder in worse pain now, but eyes still glued on the drama playing out in front of them.

Alexis wheels around with an outraged gasp. “Did you just tell me to eat your shorts? Because wow, David. I’m super impressed by your ability to craft a snappy, original comeback. Not!”

Just as Alexis starts marching back to the place where her brother is standing, each of them spoiling for a fight, Mr. Brewer goes to retrieve the last item from the spilled Uhaul box. It’s a white sock tangled with one of Patrick’s belts, lying limp on the sidewalk between the squabbling siblings, so Clint says, “Excuse me,” as he leans over to pick it up.

Patrick has the realization a millisecond before anyone else does: it’s not a sock.

Nope. It is not a sock and a belt. Oh, God, oh, Lord Jesus in heaven, please, _no_. It’s–

Patrick can read horror and disdain on David’s face as clearly as a newspaper headline, the moment David understands what he’s looking at. “I’m sorry, is that a jockstrap?”

\----

The first time Patrick meets up with Stevie on the ALLBS campus is for dinner in the cafeteria (tucked away in the church basement), following their respective afternoons of moving into the dorms. While they wait in line to claim trays of food, he tells her about the debacle on the lawn, sparing no detail. By the time he finishes his story, they’re taking seats at an empty table.

“A jockstrap?!” Stevie repeats, incredulous. “He just said, ‘I’m sorry, is that a jockstrap?’ and walked away without even acknowledging you or your parents? The dude sounds like a tool, but it’s fricking awesome that the whole humiliating thing happened. I mean, aside from you reinjuring your shoulder, obviously.” She lasts a solid 11 seconds before dissolving into evil-sounding laughter.

Using the arm that’s not in a sling, Patrick raises his half-pint carton of low-fat chocolate milk in a mock toast. “Thanks, Stevie. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t decided to follow me to Bible school. You’re the only person who can so thoroughly revel in my misfortune.”

“Someone has to be around to appreciate it. I’m just doing the Lord’s work.” Stevie wraps spaghetti around her fork and falls silent, but it’s not long until she’s ribbing Patrick again. “So, to be clear, a girl you described to me as ‘sort of waif-like’ basically knocked you out?”

“Hey, I didn’t lose consciousness! I never said that I lost consciousness.”

“Maybe it would have been better if you had. Then the pretty girl would have focused on you lying on the ground and not your gross testicle bra.”

“Wow. I can’t eat now.” Patrick slides his meal across the table. “You can have my breadstick if you want it.”

“You’re giving me your breadstick?”

“Yes,” Patrick confirms grumpily. “Just take it, Stevie.”

“Whoa, no. Trust me, I don’t want to take your ‘breadstick.’”

“What’s with the air quotes?”

“I was making a double entendre at your expense. You know, ‘cause you decided to give me a phallic dough log right after we talked about your junk.”

Patrick’s best friend laughs at her own witticism until one of her contact lenses falls out of her eye and into a serving of diced peaches in syrup. Because he’s a good sport, he helps her find it and doesn’t mention the word ‘karma’ once.

“Dang,” Stevie complains. “Now I have to go rinse this off and let it soak for a while.” She looks at her mostly untouched food (including the extra breadstick) and sighs.

Patrick passes her a napkin. “Just set the lens on this for now and finish eating. It’ll be fine.”

“Okay, but if this accidentally gets thrown away, you’re buying me a new pair of contacts.”

“That’s not gonna happen, not on my watch,” Patrick promises.

“Oh? Tell that to the retainers—plural—that you dumped in the lunchroom trash our sophomore year of high school.”

Leaning back in his chair, Patrick crosses his arms defensively. “To be fair, they were clear and difficult to see.”

“Hello! So is my contact!”

Patrick can’t keep a self-deprecating smile off his lips; all joking aside, he’s grateful that he and Stevie wound up at the same college. She helps him get out of his head and celebrate the nuances of life, not just facts and figures. She makes him happy and keeps him sane.

She keeps him healthy, too. “At least eat your peaches, Patty. Gotta get some fruit into you every day. I gave Marcy my word that I wouldn’t let you die in the first semester.”

“But the second semester, all bets are off, then?”

“Absolutely,” Stevie says. “Then the full weight of your destiny will rest in your semi-capable hands.”

“Awesome,” Patrick replies with a laugh. He eats a few pieces of slimy peach and only resents Stevie a little. "And God's perfectly capable ones, of course."

Nodding, Stevie agrees. "Of course."

Provided he does stay alive, it’s going to be an incredible two years.

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I found it hard, it’s hard to find_   
>  _Oh well, whatever, nevermind_
> 
> **“Smells Like Teen Spirit” by Nirvana, 1999**


	6. "As I Lay Me Down To Sleep"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patrick and Rachel’s engagement is short-lived, and there’s no infidelity. She remains off camera in this fic. Patrick/David is endgame, of course.

The first time Patrick meets his roommate, he’s naked. 

His roommate is, not Patrick, who spontaneously blushes and sweats like he’s the one whose body is on display. Where he comes from, people keep their clothes on in public—and in private, for that matter. Even the locker room at his Christian high school was pretty PG. As for family, Patrick doesn’t have any brothers, and he can’t remember seeing his dad’s bare chest anywhere other than a swimming pool. The Brewers keep it buttoned up, literally.

So to walk into his dorm room after the dinner conversation he just had with Stevie and see someone’s penis is both ironic and frightening.

The guy is in the process of pulling on a gray muscle shirt (what kind of person doesn’t put on their underwear first?) and didn’t notice him coming in, so Patrick tries to make a covert getaway. But no such luck; the guy spots the movement in his periphery.

“Hey, man. I’m Jake.” Still predominantly undressed, Jake traverses the tiny room in three steps and extends a hand for Patrick to shake. When he notices that Patrick’s right arm is in a sling, he sticks his left hand out instead. Jake’s grip is warm and his smile warmer. It should be weirder, making skin contact with a stranger who has his dong out, but Jake makes it seem natural. 

“Patrick Brewer. Hi,” Patrick says and, once he has his hand back, he turns to rummage in his closet so Jake can have some belated privacy. He also uses the time to pull together the small amount of info he gathered on his roommate’s appearance while trying not to look at him. Jake is tall, muscular yet lean, bearded… _hung_.

“Are you going to change, too?” Jake’s question makes sense in context, no doubt, but Patrick is still off his game after their atypical introduction. “Just so you know,” Jake says, “we don’t have to follow the dress code for these meetings.”

Aha. The question was about changing clothes. That’s logical. What meeting, though? “Thanks for letting me know.” He’s stalling by flipping through the shirts hanging in his closet. “I’ll probably just keep this on. I wear khakis and long sleeve t-shirts most of the time, anyway.”

Jake chuckles. “Right on. My uniform is jeans and a flannel.” He claps his hands jovially. “You wanna walk down together?”

“Um, sure. That works.” Patrick still wonders what they’re talking about. He’s at the end of his row of hanging clothes, so he figures it’s safe to turn around. It had better be.

“Do you need a minute to get ready?” Jake asks, mercifully clothed. “It doesn’t start until 8:00, but it pays to go early and actually have a fighting chance to snag a seat.”

“No, that’s okay. I’m ready.” 

“Awesome,” Jake says, offering a fist to bump. “Let’s bounce.”

\----

The first time Patrick attends a dorm meeting and PM devotional, he gets a few surprises.

Jake and Patrick do manage to claim spots on an old couch, musty but comfortable. The basement room fills quickly, with many of the 40 or so students on folding chairs or the concrete floor. After learning Jake is a second-year student, Patrick gathers as much information as he can in the time they have. He finds out that this sparsely furnished room is the men’s common area. Aside from a few other rummage-sale-quality sofas, there’s a console television and a foosball table. Patrick spots an upright piano, too. _Well_ , _that’s encouraging_ , he thinks. Making music has been an integral part of his life, and he’s hoping to find other people to jam with.

Jake also explains that they’re downstairs for the weekly men’s dorm meeting, waiting on the leader to arrive. “Usually, we’d be down here 20 minutes, max, but yeah. This one might get long since it’s the beginning of the school year. They hit you with a lot of information. Oh, dang—I should have told you to bring a notebook.”

“Do I have enough time to go back for one?” 

“Nah, but that’s okay,” Jake says. “They’ll probably have handouts. Anyway, you can ask me questions whenever. I’m the ARH for our floor.” Jake looks proud of the title, but he’s chill about it. So far, he seems to be the definition of laid-back and confident, without being cocky.

(He was *cocky* for a few minutes back in their room. Patrick forces his mind away from the incident and back into the present.)

“What’s the, um, ‘arrr?’” he asks. It sounds like stereotypical pirate slang.

“ARH = Assistant Resident Head.” Jake's voice drops to a whisper, and Patrick notices a man shushing the group and waving his hands to grab their attention. “That’s Warren, my boss. I’m a pretty open-minded person, let’s just say, but he’s a hardass.”

“Good to know. Thanks, Jake,” Patrick whispers back, and sure enough: Jake’s ‘hardass’ boss is the speaker Patrick met at church in January—the reason he heard of ALLBS in the first place. It’s surreal to see him here, though Patrick doesn’t know why he didn’t expect it to happen.

“Welcome to ALLBS, men. I’m Warren, your RH. Let’s open this meeting with prayer.” Perched on an end table, Warren bows his head low and says, “Father God, thank You for shepherding these students safely to campus and for gathering all of us here tonight to be fed by your Word. Allow us to receive and believe Your message. Bless us as we have fellowship with one another. In Jesus’s name, Amen.”

All at once, Patrick is more comfortable than he’s been all day. Everything about the college experience is new—in good ways and bad. But the familiar ritual of group prayer makes this stuffy basement feel a bit like home.

After letting his words settle, Warren opens a shipping carton that’s on the floor beside him and removes a tall stack of paperback books. “Each of you take one, please, and pass the rest on.” It takes several minutes to empty the box and get the books circulating the room.

“This is your ‘98/‘99 Student Life handbook. You should be familiar with this document front to back and top to bottom, okay? I’ll give you some highlights, but you will be held accountable for the entirety of it, even the parts I don’t mention tonight.”

When he gets his handbook, Patrick thinks he’s accidentally taken more than one. But no, it’s only that the so-called ‘document’ is 68 pages long, single-spaced, and in a size 11 font, from the looks of it. As much as Patrick wants to follow along with Warren and soak up the information, he’s closer to taking an accidental nap on Jake’s shoulder. The words blur, and Patrick can’t help but tune out. It’s been a very long day.

Before his eyes have a chance to close, however, he spots someone lingering in the room’s entrance, leaning insouciantly against the door frame with their arms crossed. Rather than all white, this person is wearing all black, but it’s still a cinch to tell who it is. It’s David—the guy who witnessed Patrick’s tragic rendezvous with the ground and whose sister caused it, both of whom became acquainted with his jockstrap. Or _gross testicle bra_ , as Stevie called it. In Patrick’s defense, the jockstrap was clean, so any grossness was merely psychological.

Patrick feels a full-body heatwave when David’s eyes meet his from across the room. Then, realizing David isn’t going to look away first, he’s as shaken and embarrassed as he was at their first meeting, albeit for different reasons. Reasons which are not entirely clear to Patrick, primarily because he refuses to examine them, just yet.

Far better to ask Jake what page of the student handbook Warren is explaining and focus on that. The material is less enticing but also less dangerous.

\----

The first time Patrick crawls into bed in his dorm room, he finds he’s too tired to sleep. There are so many new faces and names to remember, so many rules and regulations to assimilate. Warren’s dorm meeting lasted more than an hour, and the nightly devotional tacked on another 20 minutes, so it’s getting close to the designated 10:00 PM curfew. Patrick wasn’t expecting a campus-wide curfew, but it’s not all that different than the one his parents imposed on him at home. He’ll survive.

Out of curiosity, he looks over at Jake’s side of the room and sees him drawing on a sketch pad, a jar of colored pencils on the bed with him. 

“What are you sketching?”

Jake keeps his pencil moving as he answers. “I’m working on conceptualizing a set of chairs for my mom’s deck.”

“That’s cool. So, like, you’re going to commission them?”

“I’m going to make them,” Jake explains, finally abandoning his sketchbook to smile at Patrick. “I do a lot of wood-working, and my favorite thing to design is furniture. Actually, I figure my mom asked me for deck chairs because I’ve made way too much for her house. ‘A woman only needs so many end tables,’ she told me last Christmas. And hey, she’s probably right. A few of us ended up sitting on the end tables to open presents because there were more tables than chairs in her living room.” 

Patrick’s amused smile becomes a wholehearted belly laugh when Jake concludes his story: “Upholstered chairs, I mean. There were lots of people in wooden rockers. I’m going to figure out how to make them stackable; I promised Mom.”

It takes time before Patrick’s grin fades enough that he can talk through it. “That is totally awesome, Jake. I’m sure your mom appreciates your generosity, even if it is a little...extreme.”

That sets them both off again, and Patrick takes a moment to say a silent prayer of thanks for God’s gift of a friendly roommate. As the laughter dies down, Patrick decides to grab stationery (personalized courtesy of his mother) from his desk and write his first letter home.

Initially, he plans to address the letter to his parents, but someone else’s name forms on the page.

“ _Dear Rachel,_

_What a bizarre day I had. It was good, definitely, but it was nuts. This guy named Jake is my roommate, and he’s cool. Maybe you’ll meet him when you visit._

_I miss you, Rach. We don’t have the phone line hooked up in our room yet, or I would call instead of writing. Oh, well. I’ll tell you my new number as soon as I have it._

_Sorry this is so short! My shoulder popped out again today, and it’s killing me. Give Mushroom some extra ear scritches for me, okay? Love you both._

_Love, Patrick_ ”

Before he can overthink his wording, Patrick folds the letter and tucks it into an envelope. As he licks the stamp, Jake asks, “Who are you writing to, dude? It’s pretty early to be homesick.”

His question is good-natured, and he’s been open with Patrick from the time they met (perhaps too open, definitely too naked), so he answers truthfully.

“My fiancée. I just feel like I owe her a quick update. She’s still a senior in high school, so we’ll be apart for at least a year.”

“Already engaged, eh? Congrats,” Jake says. “You know they call this place Bridal School instead of Bible School because so many people come here to find their spouse, right?”

“No, I didn’t know that.” Patrick scratches behind his ear, uncomfortable for no apparent reason. “Did you find someone already?”

Jake gathers his drawing supplies and sets everything on the small nightstand next to his bed. Patrick has a matching one, and he’s not sure he’s ready to discover what all his mom managed to fit inside its two drawers.

“I haven’t yet. Maybe I’m just too easy to please. It’s hard to narrow down the options if you catch my drift.” Pulling a thin, burgundy and blue patterned blanket over himself, Jake stretches his long body out across his bed, opting to stay on top of the other bedding. “I sleep hot. Do you mind if I use a fan at night?”

“Not at all,” Patrick says. He, too, puts away his things and readies himself for sleep, starting to feel like he may just be able to achieve it soon. With annoyance, he realizes one of them will have to get back up to turn out the light. Not to mention their door standing wide open. Reluctantly, he swings one leg off the bed. Then the other. Patrick almost has enough resolve gathered….

But then he hears a commotion in the hallway.

“Quiet hours!” someone yells, and a door slams shut. “Quiet hours!” they shout once more, and another door slams. So on and so on, growing louder as the person gets closer to Patrick and Jake’s room. A few slams later, Warren shows up in their doorway.

“Quiet hours,” Warren barks at them, shutting the door none too gently.

“Is that, um, normal?”

“Unfortunately, yeah,” Jake says with a sigh. “You’ll get used to it, though.”

Patrick lets himself fall back against his pillow resignedly. At least he doesn’t have to get up to close the door. That’s something.

He gets into a comfortable sleeping position and hears Jake rustling around, doing the same. It’s silent until Jake’s fan clicks on, but the white noise is welcome. This is an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, next to an unfamiliar person who—while friendly—is still practically a stranger, so he prays until he feels safe again. He’s blessedly relaxed, more than halfway to unconsciousness.

“Hey, Pat? You gonna turn off the light? I’m way too frigging tired.” Jake doesn’t even wait for a response. “Thanks, roomie. You’re the man.”

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _As I lay me down to sleep_   
>  _This I pray_   
>  _That you will hold me, dear_   
>  _Though I'm far away_
> 
> **“As I Lay Me Down” by Sophie B. Hawkins, 1994**


	7. "Picture Perfect"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter was like pulling teeth, so I need to pause and thank my betas/cheerleaders/angels of inspiration, Erin and Chris. Thank you, dear ones!

The first time Patrick and David have a conversation, it’s an argument.

Today is Sunday, the students’ first full day on campus. Most of them would rather sleep in, but Sunday morning means a mandatory worship service. More importantly, according to Jake, it means a celebratory Welcome to ALLBS brunch, which is good news. If he were back home, Stevie, Patrick, and his parents would be heading straight from church to Baxter’s Buffet, with its custom omelet station and the cheesiest cheesy potatoes on earth. Not to mention a pastry table featuring Baxter’s famous caramel brownies, more sinful than Patrick’s most sensual dreams.

Here at ALLBS, the spread is more humble. 

In fact, the only thing differentiating this brunch from a typical lunch is the presence of bacon and pancakes on the serving line and a platter of grocery store cinnamon rolls at a nearby table. Next to the rolls is a sign:

“ _Welcome, Students! Please take ONE treat_.” Underneath is the verse Proverbs 25:16, handwritten in calligraphy. “ _Have you found honey? Eat_ only _what you need, so that you do not have it in excess and vomit it._ ” Patrick’s appetite rapidly dwindles, and he abandons the cinnamon rolls without taking one. 

Now he has to find a place to sit, no easy feat with so many churchgoers funneled to the basement cafeteria. Students, their family members who stayed in town overnight, and the entire ALLBS faculty are doing their best to eat and socialize at the same time. It’s chaos.

Initially, Patrick is relieved to spot an empty chair nearby, but then he sees who else is seated at the table (a moody-looking David), and he veers to the other side of the room, hoping to avoid detection. He’s adrift until someone enthusiastically waves him over.

“Hey, big guy. You need a place to sit? I’m just leaving.”

Quickly moving to take the proffered seat, Patrick thanks his benefactor and tries not to be bothered by the phrase, _big guy_. While he has an athletic build, Patrick isn’t notably bulky, and he’s only 5’ 8” tall. It could have been a dis, but the guy who said it is still standing at the table, grinning down at him in what seems a sincere manner.

“Thanks again, man,” Patrick offers.

The stranger rocks forward on his toes, seeming pleased. “No problem. I just thought you looked like you could use some _chairing_ up.”

“Chairing?”

“Yeah! Chairing up, like cheering up, but ‘chair’ because, you know, you needed an actual chair. I’m Ted, by the way.”

“Great to meet you. I’m Patrick.”

Ted’s perma-smile somehow grows. “Awesome. Well, I’ll let you eat in peace.” Raising a half-eaten cinnamon roll from his tray, he says, “Cinnamon _bun_ Appetit.”

Patrick gives an approving nod. “Good one.” He watches Ted cross the room to return his tray to the kitchen. He looks back at Patrick once before leaving the cafeteria and gives a friendly salute - another nice guy in a place apparently full of them. Of course, there is a notable exception, and he’s right there in Patrick’s line of sight.

Shortly after Ted’s departure, there is an exodus of sorts. More and more people finish eating and scatter, so David’s table is now empty but for him. He’s sitting with one long leg draped over the other, angled a bit sideways in the chair. With shoulders rounded inward and a slight twist at the waist, David’s body forms a sinuous arc. One hand rests in his lap; the other spears a piece of pancake and brings the food to his lips, all lazy, feline grace.

Are those lips as curvaceous as Patrick remembers from his and David’s first run-in? It’s impossible to verify at this distance, but there’s a high probability. Not that it’s any of Patrick’s concern - just his overachieving brain flexing its considerable powers of observation. He has noticed and memorized umpteen pairs of lips over the years. In fact, he’s sure he could draw Rachel’s mouth with his eyes closed. You know, probably.

At any rate, now that David is no longer towering over a fallen Patrick or looming in a doorway while others sit, he appears smaller. In stature, if not personality. Even though he is all by himself and silent, David’s presence is loud. Dressed entirely in black, he makes the neutral color look like a statement. His entire look says, “Don’t interact.” Or maybe, “You wish you were me.” Probably both.

After dabbing his mouth with a napkin and taking a drink of water, David moves on to the cinnamon roll, and he eats it with the same deliberate ease. He holds the dessert with his left hand and peels off sections with his right. It’s a messy process, but he makes it look practiced. Perhaps it is; perhaps David is a cinnamon roll addict and does this every day. He has a pattern: tear off a chunk, lick the frosting from the top, bite off the now frostingless part, and, finally, pop the rest into his mouth and chew. Then there’s the ever-important licking of sweet, cinnamony goo from his fingers. David looks like he’s having such a good time that it causes Patrick to reevaluate his own decision to forgo the treat.

An indeterminate amount of time later, Patrick is startled out of his voyeurism when someone sets a lunch tray on the table with a clatter. 

“Hey, Mister P.” It’s Stevie, now seated across from him.

“Stevie, where have you been? I saved you a spot in the chapel, but you never showed.”

“Well, I tried,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Some dude who works here sent me back to the dorm to change my shirt. I guess flannel isn’t good enough for church, even though I had it buttoned up.”

“And it took you…,” Patrick looks at his watch, “more than an hour to find something suitable?”

“Yes, it did. I packed a lot of flannel shirts.”

“Color me shocked.”

“Anyway, I was torqued off so I decided to ditch.”

Patrick savors his final piece of bacon before saying, “Breaking the dress code _and_ skipping church the first Sunday at Bible school? Stellar plan.”

Shrugging, Stevie starts on her own bacon, and they eat in companionable silence. With the headstart he has, Patrick finishes his meal first. While he waits for Stevie to catch up, his eyes drift back to David, currently occupied with cleaning his hands, employing a combination of napkin and tongue. It looks like he’s finished with the roll.

“Earth to Patrick,” Stevie says, waving a hand in Patrick’s face. “What do you keep staring at over there?”

“What? Nothing.”

Stevie turns to look for herself. “You mean the ‘nothing’ with tall hair and black Chucks?” She hums appreciatively. “Mmmm. Isn’t he all that and a bag of chips?”

Patrick’s answering hum is neutral.

“But isn’t he, though? Seriously, he’s a hottie.”

“If you say so.”

“Oh, I do. I really do,” Stevie says, still scoping David out.

They would make an attractive couple, Patrick realizes, both dark-haired and brown-eyed but with contrasting skin tones. A bothersome emotion tightens his chest. It’s not jealousy because that would make zero sense in context, but it feels a lot like it.

“That’s the guy,” he says. “From yesterday. The one whose sister ran into me.”

Stevie’s head snaps forward. “Jockstrap guy!?” 

“Shh, Stevie. And don’t call him that; his name is David.”

Eyes suddenly narrowed, Stevie considers Patrick and his words. “His name is David?”

“Yes,” Patrick says, frustrated. “Didn’t I tell you that already?”

“No, yeah, you totally did. But this time, you said, ‘His name is David,’ in the same defensive tone as ‘But Daddy, I love him.’ What’s up with that, Ariel?”

Patrick goes speechless, nonsensical thoughts skipping like a needle on a record player while Stevie’s face lights up. She looks like the proverbial cat with the cream, for reasons Patrick can’t begin to fathom. All he knows is that his shirt is too warm, so he pops a button at the top and runs a finger under the neckline of his tank top, letting some air in.

Movement in his peripheral vision catches Patrick’s attention. It’s David, scraping his tray over a trash can.

“Go!” Stevie hisses. Pointing urgently in David’s direction, she says, “He’s leaving. Follow him!”

If Patrick was in his right mind, he would ask why Stevie would suggest such a thing, but his brain hasn’t rebooted yet, so he obeys without question. He's done eating anyway. As Patrick walks to the tray return, a little more briskly than he usually would, he watches David backtrack to the dessert table and, in flagrant violation of the rules, help himself to another roll. Placing it atop a fresh napkin, he thoroughly licks the fingers that were just used to grab the pastry.

This is getting ridiculous now. Patrick doesn’t need to see this much of another guy’s tongue - ever, let alone in a single day. Of course, it’s not David’s fault Patrick is standing there like some kind of creep, perving on a stranger.

Because that’s what they are: strangers. As far as he can tell, David doesn’t know he’s alive. Even when Patrick was laid out on the ground at David’s feet, he didn’t get a single word from the guy, apparently invisible. Further validating that conclusion, the so-called hottie breezes past Patrick without a glance, so near to crashing into him that Patrick gasps and takes a big step back. No reaction from David.

“Hello,” David says to someone behind the lunch counter. “I need a small to-go box for this roll.” After the service worker gives an apologetic shake of the head, he asks, “You don’t have any? What kind of an eating establishment doesn’t invest in proper containers for food storage and transport? Rest assured, the office will be hearing about this.”Following at a short distance, Patrick trails David out of the room. An elderly woman stops them in the hallway before they can head for the stairs.

“Have you two had your photos taken?”

Patrick is confused. “Pardon?”

“Your portraits for the ALLBS yearbook. No? If you’ll please walk that way down the hall, you will see the photographer’s booth and sign-in table. There shouldn’t be a very long wait.”

“No, thank you,” David says primly. “Usually I’m not averse to modeling, but I’m really not dressed for the occasion, as I’m sure you can see.”

Upon first glance, what Patrick sees is a fitted black sweater, perfectly appropriate for school pictures. But no, it’s actually a sweatshirt, the sweater’s more casual cousin, with fabric so smooth it looks like a wetsuit. While leisurewear isn’t allowable at school functions (a point Warren hammered home at the dorm meeting), the shirt is nice enough that it seems David has gotten away with the infraction. Unlike poor Stevie and her flannel.

“Well, it’s not optional,” the woman tells them, voice firm. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let anyone leave until they’ve had their portraits done.”

David bristles. “How in the world were we supposed to know to prepare for this? We’ve been given no advance notice, and that’s not fair.”

The schoolmarm type points out a large poster on the wall next to the door of the cafeteria. It reads, “ _Welcome, students! You must stop at the school portrait station at the end of the hallway before leaving. Thank you, and enjoy your special brunch!_ ”

“Actually,” Patrick says, as a memory takes shape, “I’m pretty sure that Warren mentioned it at our meeting last night.”

David’s neck audibly pops as he whips his head around to look at Patrick. “How would you know? You were asleep for most of it!” Parting barb delivered, David stomps away in the specified direction, apparently resigned to his fate.

He doesn’t know that those words have Patrick dizzy with how fast his brain needs to work to process this new information. A. David does, in fact, know of his existence. B. He watched him closely enough at the dorm meeting to see Patrick nodding off during the boring bits. C. He recognized Patrick today, though he would swear David didn’t look at him once. He’s certainly not looking now, having reached the portrait station. Patrick catches up in time to hear him speak, presumably to himself.

“Where is the mirror?” David wonders aloud. “I don’t see a mirror.”

“You can use the one in the bathroom. That’s what I did,” says a curly-haired girl ahead of them in line. She shrugs and gives David a pretty smile. “But you look really nice already, so maybe don’t worry about it.”

“Oh, I always worry about it. Thank you, though. That’s very kind.”

To the female student, David is polite. He’s rude in equal measure when he demands that Patrick save his spot in line and leaves for the bathroom, the ill-gotten cinnamon roll in tow. Stevie arrives before David returns, so Patrick allows her to go ahead of him. When she reaches the photographer, it’s Patrick’s turn to register, and he does so quickly. He wants them to be able to walk back to the dorms together.

Patrick leans over the table long enough to write his name and contact info semi-legibly on a slip of paper. When he straightens up, there’s a wall directly behind him that wasn’t there before. A firm, good-smelling wall that gives an undignified shriek and swears at him.

“Oh, my god. Look what you’ve done!”

Patrick turns and realizes that David is back - every hair on his head perfectly in place but with a cinnamon roll now embedded dead center in the fabric of his fancy sweatshirt.

“I didn’t do that. No way.”

“You did! You backed into me like some kind of construction vehicle but without the warning beeps.” David peels away the roll from his shirt, and a goodly amount of sticky goo is left behind.

“Well, you must’ve been tiptoeing,” Patrick argues, “because I didn’t have any warning, either. I assumed you were still in the bathroom primping.”

“And I assumed you had at least an average level of spatial awareness!”

It’s hard to look away from David’s expressive face - with everything his eyebrows and mouth are doing, it’s quite a show - but Patrick notices that Stevie has joined them and is grinning like mad. There’s something feral in her eyes.

“Hey, guys,” she says. “How’s it going?”

David’s voice drops to a quiet hiss, which turns out to be more intimidating than his shouting. “It’s going straight to Hell. Thanks for asking.”

“It’s your turn, Patty,” Stevie says, jerking her chin towards the waiting photographer.

“Um, I would argue that it’s my turn, since he let you cut in line, but it looks like I won’t be having my picture taken today. Goodbye, Patty and random girl whose name I don’t care to know.”

Stevie and Patrick speak at the same time.

“My name isn’t Patty, though…,” is barely noticeable under Stevie’s, “I wouldn’t try getting past that witch with a ‘b.’ Trust me on this one.”

All three students look to the hall monitor and find her staring them down from a distance.

“Next person in line, please!” The photographer yells, impatient. “I haven’t had my damn lunch yet.”

Patrick winces at the obscenity, but it motivates David to action, and he shoulders past the two of them determinedly. He marches up to the photographer. “Fine, I’ll go. And you can have this,” David says, plopping the mangled cinnamon roll and napkin down on the table. “Enjoy.”

He grimaces for the camera and leaves the moment he can.

“Hey,” Patrick calls after him. “You forgot to fill out the form.”

“I don’t have time for paperwork; I have to treat this top immediately. Do you have any idea what the oils in cream cheese frosting do to a cotton-rich blend?” After giving Patrick a once-over, David sniffs, haughty. “Judging from your ensemble, you most certainly do not.”

Patrick feels his mouth forming the downturned smile that Stevie likes to tease him for, but it’s beyond his control, a subconscious attempt to disguise the fact that he’s amused. In this case, while Patrick thinks David is exceedingly pretentious, he’s also the smallest bit charming.

“Vanity, vanity, David. All is vanity,” Patrick says, paraphrasing Ecclesiastes 1:2. 

Teeth bared, David snarls as he stalks away. After just a few steps, he starts licking his fingers again, this time looking like he hates the task.

Patrick’s resulting smile lingers, in full bloom by the time his photo is snapped, and he can tell his mother will be pleased with it. She doesn’t need to know that the best school picture of Patrick’s life comes courtesy of his new nemesis.

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Gaze in the mirror; you want the glamour_   
>  _And the grace of a movie star_   
>  _But I like you the way you are_
> 
> _You don’t have to be picture perfect_   
>  _To fit the frame_
> 
> **“Picture Perfect” by Michael W. Smith, 1992**


	8. "Let's Talk About Sex"

The first time Patrick attends class at ALLBS, he walks in with enthusiasm. He walks out an hour later with very mixed feelings and wet pants.

As one of the earliest to arrive for Intro to Relationships & Marriage, Patrick has his pick of tables, so he chooses one that’s front and center. Yes, he is _that_ student: the one so often teacher’s pet, he may as well wear a collar and leash; the one who throws off the grading curve on every exam; the one other kids want to hate but can’t because he’s too darn nice, not that it has earned him many lasting friendships, Stevie aside. 

But this is a new school, and the slate is clean. Although Patrick is optimistic about making a good impression, he does worry that people here will think he’s too safe to be any fun. (He also worries they’ll be right.) On the other hand, devoted Christians gather here to study God’s Holy Word. Like, voluntarily. Patrick may have finally found his tribe.

The last student to enter the classroom is David, and he gets stuck with the last empty chair - the one in front next to Patrick. He sidles over to it, wearing an expression of disgust and a black polo with white stars embroidered around the shirt’s yoke. There isn’t enough time to get a very good look, but Patrick suspects David’s black pants are denim and not the pressed slacks mandated in the dress code. Frankly, that’s one of the least surprising things that Patrick will observe all day.

At the chalkboard stands a well-groomed Warren, looking much more pleasant than he has each of the previous two nights when announcing quiet hours and subsequently slamming doors. Evidently, he’s a morning person.

“Hello, men, and welcome to the 1998 Fall semester here at ALLBS. In the future, I’ll be teaching this class, but we have an extra special guest professor today. It’s my honor to introduce our school president, Dr. Roland.” With a cordial nod, Warren cedes the floor to a man who is, well...unkempt is the only word for it. He’s in his late 40s, Patrick would guess, and he’s sporting a scraggly, strawberry blond beard with matching scraggly blond mullet. An ill-fitting suit jacket is open over a white polo, stretched taut across the man’s substantial belly.

“That’s right,” he says, flashing a smarmy smile. “My name is Dr. Roland Schitt, and I’m the President of ALLBS as well as the Dean of Students, so if you’re looking for some boots to lick, those would be mine.” A smattering of uncomfortable laughter arises as he pulls up the hem of his slacks to show off a pair of godawful cowboy boots. “Just to make you aware, we’ve got the gals in another room for this particular course because you’re going to be tackling some racy subject matter with Warren.” Dr. Roland looks way too pleased by the prospect, pulling his lower lip between his teeth while giving an exaggerated eyebrow waggle.

“But enough of the boring stuff. Is everybody ready? Let’s talk about sex!”

“My God,” Patrick overhears David say with a disgusted undertone. He takes the Lord’s name in vain far too often, but it does seem justified here.

Dr. Roland starts walking amongst the tables where the students are seated, projecting an aura of relaxed familiarity as if he’s one of them and they’re talking about girls over McDonald’s takeout. “I’m just gonna say it: Sex is fantastic. Let me tell you, my wife Jocelyn is the hottest babe you’ll ever meet, assuming I let you meet her, which I won’t.” He winks directly at Patrick, who now wants to douse himself in Lysol. “And our sex life is _da bomb_ ,” Dr. Roland says, pausing to let his claim sink in. “Can you guess why that is?”

No one speaks, assuming the question is rhetorical.

“Seriously. Can _you_ guess why our love-making is so excellent?” Dr. Roland taps on the tabletop of a guy who looks quite a bit like Jay Leno. He also looks like he’s going to combust from unhealthy levels of mortification.

“Um…practice makes perfect?”

With a condescending laugh and a shoulder squeeze, Dr. Roland tells him, “I’m not gonna lie; we’ve had a lot of practice. But no, that’s not the reason we rock each other’s worlds on the regular. It’s not because of practice or even my naturally smooth moves. Nope. It’s God! He’s right there with us every time, making sure we reach blissful completion.”

Next to Patrick, David makes a small noise of distress. “I’m going to be sick. Like, actually sick. Do you happen to have an emesis bag?” When Patrick ignores him in favor of doodling on a piece of graph paper, determined to tune out this traumatizing lecture, David kicks him lightly on the shin. “Patty person? Whatever your name is, do you have something I can vomit into?”

“Wait, are you for real?” Patrick asks, concerned. “Also, my name is Patrick, and that hurt. Please don’t kick me with combat boots ever again.”

“Sorry, but I’m very much for real. I need a bag to puke in. Alternatively, a garbage can would suffice.”

Patrick starts scanning the room for a trash receptacle, even as Dr. Roland blathers on about his mind-blowing bedroom romps.

“It’s true, fellas. The big man upstairs gave me a woman designed to be my ideal match, physically sculpted to please my eyes and my eyes alone. To meet my every need, if you catch my drift. And whoo-ee does she do it with gusto.”

David groans and clutches his midsection. “Hurry up, or I’ll have to use your backpack.”

“Use your own backpack! And I don’t see a garbage can or anything remotely similar.” 

Back at the front of the room, Dr. Roland takes on a more serious tone. “Now you might be wondering, ‘Why is this handsome guy with great hair bragging about his sex life to a roomful of innocent young men?’ Well, I don’t mean to be boastful; I really don’t. But I feel like one of the reasons God gave me Jocelyn is so that I can confidently preach this important truth: There is a woman somewhere on this earth—maybe on this campus—that was born for you. It’s true! The only thing you gotta do, okay, is to wait for her. Just wait, and our Creator God will deliver her into your hands.”

This is starting to resemble what Patrick remembers learning at church. It sounds a little bit suspect coming from this strange specimen of a man, but at least the information can be corroborated.

But then, unsurprisingly, Dr. Roland makes it weird again. “It’s hard to wait for marriage, though, am I right? God knows that it’s hard. It’s always at least semi-hard, but sometimes it’s really, really hard. Get it?” He does more lip-biting and winking.

“Okay, ew,” David says. “Just ew.”

“God gets it, too, so that’s why He has commanded us to find our wives early in life; otherwise temptation will get ya. Now you’re gonna see multiple passages in scripture in support of this, for instance, Proverbs 5:18-19. It goes like this:

> _Let your fountain be blessed,_
> 
> _And rejoice in the wife of your youth._
> 
> _Like a loving doe and a graceful mountain goat,_
> 
> _Let her breasts satisfy you at all times_ —”

When Dr. Roland punctuates the sentence by groping a set of imaginary boobs in the air, David snaps. "I’m going to stop you right there.”

“Excuse me, young man? Do you have something productive to share with the class?”

In dramatic fashion, David leans over and _produces_ his liquified breakfast, and he does it all over Patrick’s lap. 

The room explodes with “Yuck,” and “Dang,” and “Not cool, dude,” among other exclamations, a fair number of them obscene.

Startled, Patrick cycles between nausea and anger until he sees David’s wan face, his watery eyes. “What the heck was that?” he asks, just slightly less harsh than perhaps he could be.

David hesitates. Then, smirking his crooked, rueful smile, he gives the answer in a hoarse voice. “It was payback.”

\----

Five minutes and ten paper towels later, Patrick has most of the yuckiness removed from his pants. Then, David comes bursting through the door of the restroom where Patrick sought shelter after the incident.

“Oh, Lord,” Patrick protests. “Not again. Please, go barf somewhere else.”

“No, that’s not— I’m not feeling sick anymore, I promise. Just take off your pants.”

Warily, Patrick puts his hands on his hips and creates some space between himself and David. “That’s very forward of you.”

“What?!” David shakes his head, bewildered. “I just need you to quickly remove your— Oh, I can see now why that sounded wrong. Anyway, get them off!”

“I’m still lost here, David. What are you talking about?”

Squeezing his eyes closed, David visibly takes a few moments to compose himself. “It goes against every last one of my principles, but I feel I should offer to save your hideous trousers.”

“Well, that’s wonderful,” Patrick says, sounding like he means the opposite. “I’ve got it taken care of, though.”

David eyeballs the crotch of Patrick’s pants for longer than is seemly. “What you’ve _got_ is a stain that will fully set before you get back to your room if it isn’t dealt with right now.”

“And how would one...deal with it?”

“I can show you faster than I can tell you. Please, give me the damn pants.”

“Stop swearing at me, and I will.”

“Fine!” 

“Fine,” Patrick echoes, but it’s weak. Suddenly, his mouth is dry, his throat is tight, and his limbs aren’t working correctly. Why should he be nervous about taking off a single layer of clothing in front of another guy—let alone this guy in particular? Patrick is wearing perfectly respectable boxers underneath, after all. Nothing to be ashamed of. He almost has his belt worked free of its buckle when David takes matters into his own hands. Literally. 

“Oh, my God, you are utterly inept.” Like magic, the belt comes undone for David, and the button and zipper are no match for his deft fingers. Whereas he seems confident, David looks like a skittish lobster as he gingerly proceeds to pinch each pant leg with one of his hands, wiggling the garment down over Patrick’s hips, then thighs, then knees.

In self-protection, Patrick shuffles out of David’s reach and kicks the rest of the way free from his khakis, which go flying across the bathroom.

“Rude,” David says, but he collects the soiled khakis and heads to the sink. “Now give me your driver's license.”

“Sorry, what?”

“Or a credit card, a library card. Anything rectangular and plastic.”

Patrick goes to extract his wallet from his back pocket before realizing he has no back pocket at the moment. “They’re in my pants,” he croaks. “And you have my pants.”

David’s eyes flash, dark and deep and wicked. “Indeed, I do.” Thankfully, he’s all business as he retrieves an ATM card from Patrick’s wallet and turns the tap on, as hot as it will go. While he waits for the water to heat up, he uses the card’s long edge to scrape off residue remaining on the fabric. Okay, so Patrick didn’t do the best job of cleaning up. Sue him.

After he sets the card aside, David wads up the top portion of the pants and plunges them under the stream of water. “Fuck, that hurts,” he gripes when the water burns his hands.

“You told me you’d stop swearing.”

“I’ll stop swearing when you stop wearing fugly clothes,” David declares, not without vitriol.

He searches for a good comeback, but nothing comes to mind, so Patrick keeps his mouth shut and watches David work on the stain. There’s something appealing in how capable he is of the task, how painstakingly he scrubs and rinses, scrubs and rinses again.

“Did you pack any baking soda?” David asks as he toils over the pants. “We may have gotten lucky and solved the problem already, but you’d be safer to apply a paste of sodium bicarbonate and soak these in cold water with a drizzle of fresh lemon juice before putting them in the wash.”

Patrick nods his head agreeably. “Sure. I’ll just raid my lemon stash and get right on that.”

As if someone pressed Pause on a VCR, David’s hands stop their work, and his posture stiffens. “Okay, is the sarcasm strictly necessary?”

Even though he knows he’s dangerously close to setting David off again, Patrick grins and answers in the affirmative. Then, via the reflection in the bathroom mirror, he watches David’s eyebrows climb as high on his forehead as they’ve ever gone, his previous look of concentration reverting swiftly to cold imperiousness.

“Being half-naked, and with the fate of your pants at my mercy, you might want to check your attitude.”

Patrick pantomimes checking himself over. “My attitude seems to be fine. Phew! Your sense of humor, though?” He clicks his tongue. “Not so much.”

The sopping khakis hit the floor at Patrick’s feet with a wet _thwop_. 

“That is absolutely not the case. I myself am wildly humorous, with an excellent grasp on what constitutes funniness. You, sir, are not funny.” 

David ends his rant, and he seems prepared to storm out of the room, but he doesn’t, stopping with his eyes riveted to Patrick’s boxers. Dimples frame a smug smile that he can’t quite manage to hide. 

“Your underwear, however,” he purrs, “is hilarious. I didn’t take you for that kind of guy, Pat.”

“Okay, we’re not doing ‘Pat.’” 

After making that important correction, Patrick looks down at himself. Instead of the boring, plaid boxer shorts he wears daily, he’s clad in skintight, yellow boxer briefs. To add insult to injury, there is a cartoon outline of a banana plastered over his bulge with the words _Big Banana Club_ printed beside it.

“No, these aren’t mine! I mean, they’re mine, but I only own them because Stevie thought it would be a good joke, and I’m only wearing them because I forgot half of my boxers at home and these happened to be clean.” He’s in panic mode, instinctively trying to put his soaked khakis back on, but they tangle around his feet. What a flipping nightmare. The last person Patrick wants to appear ridiculous in front of is clearly enjoying this awkward ordeal.

“Aww, it’s okay. You should be proud, you know?” David walks to the bathroom door, bestowing a brief, conciliatory caress on Patrick’s bicep. Just before he exits, he says, “I am a member of that esteemed club, too. But I don’t advertise it on my unmentionables; that’s beyond tacky.”

There’s no time for a response, witty or otherwise. David is gone, leaving Patrick alone with his wet khakis and tattered dignity.

“I’m going to kill her,” Patrick vows, once more going after his pants with thin, brown paper towels that shred into little worms as he wipes at the wet fabric. “She’s dead meat.”

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Let’s talk about sex, baby_   
>  _Let’s talk about you and me_   
>  _Let’s talk about all the good things_   
>  _And the bad things that may be_
> 
> **“Let’s Talk About Sex” by Salt-N-Pepa, 1990**


End file.
